


Night of the Living 20 Questions--Plaid

by jdrush



Series: 20 Questions [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dialogue-Only, Gen, Humour, with minor stage directions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 04:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20285260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush
Summary: Sherlock borrows John’s clothes.  John tries to correct Sherlock's behaviour.  It goes as expected.  A ‘missing scene’ from “A Scandal in Belgravia”





	Night of the Living 20 Questions--Plaid

**Author's Note:**

> RATING: PG if that.   
SPOILERS: “A Scandal in Belgravia”, but nothing plot-wise.   
DISCLAIMER: These lovely boys belong to BBC1, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Moffat and Gaitss. The beginning dialog is taken directly from “aSiB”  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This plot bunny came about from an online discussion I saw debating whether Sherlock is wearing John’s plaid dressing gown during the ’blowtorch’ scene in “Scandal”, and my muse decided to run with it.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES PART TWO: I'm slowly uploading my old fanfics to the archive. This one was first posted to my LJ July, 2013.

*Setting the scene. . .John is typing away on his laptop; Sherlock is hanging over his shoulder, criticizing. A typical day at 221B*

“No, no! Don’t mention the unsolved ones!”

“People want to know you’re human.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re interested.”

“No they’re not. . .why are they interested?”

*smug smile; points to computer screen* “Hmm. . .look at that. One thousand, eight hundred and ninety five.”

“So what?”

“I reset that counter last night. This blog has had almost two thousand hits in the last eight hours. This is your living, Sherlock. Not two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash.”

*mutters* “Two hundred forty three.” *turns away, fires up blowtorch, starts to leave room*

“Hey, hang on a tic. Is that my dressing gown?”

*stops; turns back* “Did you say something?”

“Dressing gown. Mine. You’re wearing.”

“Is there a reason why you’re talking like that?”

“Is there a reason why you’re avoiding the question?”

“I wasn’t aware you had asked me a question.”

“Sherlock, you are standing in our living room, holding a blowtorch--a LIT blowtorch, may I add--wearing my favourite dressing gown. I want to know why.”

*shrugs shoulders * “I like it.”

“So do I. That’s why I bought it.”

“One of your better purchases.”

“Ta. And you still haven’t really answered my question.”

“Yes I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Did.”

“Didn’t.”

“You sound childish, John.”

“That’s rich, coming from the pot.”

“What?”

“You know, you always do this, Sherlock. Borrow my things without asking. It wouldn’t hurt you to just ask me once in a while.”

“You might say no.”

“You don’t know that. I’ll probably say yes. And if I DO say no, I’ll give a reason and we can discuss it like two rational adul. . .well, adults, at any rate.”

*powers down the blowtorch* “I can be rational.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“It’s just a robe, John. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t. It’s the principal of the thing.”

“I mean, it’s not like I borrowed your car and crashed it.”

“Don’t have a car.”

“Or went out with your girlfriend.”

“Don’t have one of those either.”

“Or nicked your grandfather’s antique watch and lost it at a crime scene.”

“Okay, Sherlock, I get it. It’s only a robe. Maybe I overreacted a bit and. . .wait a minute! No, no, no! You are NOT turning this around on me again! You do this all time. YOU did something wrong and you know. Just own up to it!”

“I did no such thing. I simply needed a dressing gown and yours was closest.”

“It was upstairs in my bedroom hanging in a closet. How exactly was that ‘closest’?”

“I thought we were friends.”

“We ARE friends.”

“And I was under the impression that friends share things.”

“Yes, share. Not just take stuff without any regard for the other person. Plus that's a rather. . . personal. . .thing to borrow.”

*waves elegant hand dismissively* “Such a fuss. You never complain when I borrow your computer or your mobile without asking.”

“Actually, if you were listening closely, I do complain. I complain every time you do it, but it seems to have little effect.”

“Well, you borrow my bank card all the time and you don’t see me bleating about it.”

“No, Sherlock--you GIVE me your bank card to buy things for the flat because you can’t be bothered to get off your lazy arse and go to the shops yourself. You DO see the difference, don’t you?”

“If I knew you were going to get all tetchy about it. . .”

“I’m not all tetchy. I’m trying to explain why it’s not good form to invade other people’s privacy.”

*eyeroll; annoyed huff* “Not this old chestnut again.”

“I keep hoping that if I repeat it enough eventually it might penetrate that thick head of yours. No luck so far, but I’ve got faith.”

“I truly fail to see why you’re so vexed about this, John. I mean, it’s only a dressing. . .”

“A dressing gown. Yes. You’ve already said. But let’s reverse our roles. Am I to assume you’d have no problem if I borrowed some of your stuff someday without permission?”

“Of course not. Mi casa es su casa. I believe that’s the saying.”

“So I could appropriate, say, the skull one day and you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all. I find him to be a charming companion. Not the most engaging conversationalist, but a rather good listener.”

“And you’d be fine if I took your Belstaff to go to Tesco‘s once in a while?”

“If you felt the need to borrow my coat, that would mean you were cold, and as I would never want a friend to be cold, I would be glad if you borrowed my coat. It’d look ridiculous on you, naturally, but it‘s all yours.”

“What if I wanted to practice my musical skills on your violin while you're busy at Bart's?”

*murderous glower* “Hands off the Strad.”

*smirk* “I rest my case.”

“John, even you, with your limited intellect, must understand the vast disparity between a Mark and Spencer’s tartan dressing gown and a priceless Stradivarius!”

“If I may respond to that, with my limited intellect, there really, really isn’t.”

“One of them is invaluable and impossible to replace; the other can be bought at any mid-priced retail store for forty quid. Do you wish to guess which is which?”

“It was forty-five, you pompous tit. And I’m just saying that both items are special to someone in this flat and the other someone should have some respect for that fact. Do you understand the point I’m trying to make?”

“Yes.”

*dubiously* “Really?”

“Not in the least. I mean, it’s a Stradivarius, John!”

*shakes head in defeat* “Fine, you know what--never mind. Just answer my question, Sherlock. For once in your life, just PLEASE answer a simple question! Why are you wearing my robe?”

*awkward pause; foot shuffle; mumbles * “Smellslikeyou.”

“Sorry, I missed that.”

*deep, aggravated sigh* “I said. . .it smells like you.”

“As I'm the one who wears it--except for this morning, apparently--that only makes sense.”

*glances away, oddly shy* “And it. . .relaxes me. Settles my mind. It's as if I'm surrounded by you and that makes it easier for me to think.”

*flummoxed stammer* “Uh, I. . .ah. . .well. . .that’s. . .that’s good. . .”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

*still a bit baffled* “And that helps you with your work?”

*looks back at John, earnestly* “Yes. Yes it does.”

*sympathetic smile* “Okay. I think I get it now. You should have just said so at the start.”

“It sounds daft.”

*laughs* “It IS daft. It's absolutely barmy. But that's what makes it so wonderfully, gloriously YOU.”

“Does that mean you’re not upset anymore?”

“I wasn’t upset in the first place. I was just curious as to why you were wearing it.”

“And now that you know, can I borrow it again, sometime?”

“Of course, Sherlock. Anytime. Well, as long as there are no pig entrails involved.”

*Sherlock opens mouth to speak*

“Let me amend that. When ANY entrails are involved.”

*fires up blowtorch once more* “You’re so pedestrian, John.” 

THE END


End file.
